


Disgraced

by ThorneofAcre



Series: The (Mis)Adventures of the Musketeers [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:43:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1208176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThorneofAcre/pseuds/ThorneofAcre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>d'Artagnan is punished unfairly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Athos, Porthos and Aramis arrived at the musketeer barracks to find a large crowd assembled. All the guards were present, their friend d’Artagnan included, and they were all standing in neat organized rows, taking up most of the space in the courtyard.

“I didn’t know Gerard had a training exercise scheduled today,” Porthos said.

 “He doesn’t. Not that I know of.” Athos agreed, making his way to their usual place at the table which had been pushed to the side today. “Must be one of his surprise inspections.”

“Probably,” Aramis agreed, the three of them sitting down. “Ah look, here he comes.”

Gerard Bronx, Captain of the Red Guards was a big beefy man with an obnoxious voice who had all the pomp and none of the valor of a musketeer. He was exactly the sort of man that Athos went out of his way to avoid, having no patience for their misinformed sense of self-importance.

He strode over to the head of the unit assembled, pausing to make sure that he had the attention of not only his men but also the musketeers who were lounging around waiting for their orders, and started pacing at the head of the line, before addressing his men.

“It has been brought to my attention that some of you are not carrying yourself with the proper conduct that is required of one who wears the uniform of a red guard.” He paused, his sharp eyes taking in any movement from the soldiers, none of whom gave anything away. He stopped right in front of d’Artagnan, who stood with his head held high and his eyes forward.

“Boy, there are rumors that you spent all of last night in the tavern,” Gerard shouted, his face so close to d’Artagnan’s that the spit flying out of his mouth landed on the taller man’s chin. “Is this true?”

“Yes sire, but – “ d’Artagnan started to explain that he had not been drinking at all, rather he had been there to make sure Athos got back home safely after drinking himself into a stupor.

“Answer yes or no, boy!” Gerard shouted.

Athos gripped the handle of the cup that he was holding. He could tell that Gerard knew very well why d’Artagnan was at the tavern. He could also tell that the obnoxious man did not care in the slightest.

D’Artagnan must have realized the same thing because he swallowed and spoke after a moment’s hesitation, his voice ringing clear in the courtyard which had suddenly became very quiet. “Yes sire.”

“And were you late this morning in reporting to your duties?”

Aramis inhaled sharply. This morning he had seen d’Artagnan making his way to the barracks and asked him to fetch him a salve from the apothecary’s first, for the wound that Porthos had sustained on their last mission, two days ago. He himself had been rather busy with a particularly lovely lady whom he had met last night and the poor lad had obeyed his request.

Again d’Artagnan could not deny the accusation. “Yes sire.”

There was a particularly nasty look on Gerard’s face that Athos did not like in the slightest. “And were you staggering when you first entered the barracks?” he asked.

D’Artagnan frowned. He _had_ been limping slightly but that was only because he had ran to the barracks from Aramis’s home so that he wouldn’t be late and the gash on his leg that he had received on their last mission had started throbbing painfully. Again the question wasn’t one he could deny, though he strongly suspected that the captain meant that he was drunk. “Yes sire, but… - “

“Silence, boy!” Gerard snarled. “You disrespect the code of behavior that is expected of you, go around acting like a vagabond and have the audacity to talk back at your superiors? This will not be tolerated!”

Gerard faced the entire assembly before him, “An example shall be set. We do not tolerate those who shirk from duty and tarnish the image of the King’s Guards. This boy will be whipped in public in front of a full assembly at noon. Let this serve as a warning to all of you.”

Athos and Porthos had risen up from their seats in protest but Aramis stopped them by grabbing each of their arms. “Challenge him now in front of everyone and you will be doing d’Artagnan no favor.”

“Let go of me.” Athos shook off the hand and turned to look of him. “I am not going to challenge that foul man, I am going to speak to the captain about this. He knows very well that d’Artagnan is not one to shirk from duty and he will not let him suffer this disgrace.”  There was an almost manic look of anger on Athos’s face.

“Well in that case,” Aramis said, standing up too. “Lead the way.”

The three of them could feel all eyes on them as they made their way upstairs to Captain Treville’s office. Aramis caught a glimpse of d’Artagnan, whose face remained impassive and expressionless but who followed their movements with his eyes.

“You are al dismissed. Go back to you training and assemble here at noon sharp.” Gerard instructed his men, and the crowd dispersed. D’Artagnan quietly made his way to where his sword and armor were kept, receiving sympathetic glances from the other musketeers and catching a few smug looks on the other guard’s faces. He had known that receiving the attentions of the three of the most elite musketeers would not sit well with a lot of people, but he hadn’t realized things could get so bad.

Still he did not allow himself to panic, knowing that Athos and the others would sort out the matter with the Captain, and he would surely not have to suffer the disgrace of a public whipping.

_A public whipping!_ Like some common criminal!

D’Artagnan took deep breathes to calm himself, loosening the tight fist he hadn’t realized he had formed. No, that would surely not be allowed to happen. This was all some sort of political payback, he supposed. Because Gerard was well aware that there wasn’t a single one of the guards who worked harder at their jobs than him.

He chided himself for worrying. He knew his friends would come through for him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The musketeers try to talk to Captain Treville about d'Artagnan.

Captain Treville looked up from his desk as the three of his best men burst into his office. Even though he had been fully expecting it, the ferocity of emotion on their faces startled him, a little. Never had he seen Athos so guilt stricken, Aramis so ashamed and Porthos so adamant.

“Gentlemen, I believe there is a habit we practice. It’s called knocking.” He stood up, folding his arms, the picture of calm and composed.

Aramis strode forward. “Sire, d’Artagnan is to be whipped!”

“Aye, that oaf Gerard intends to set an example of him. You have to stop him.” Porthos, the man who never spoke when Aramis and Athos were present to do the talking, spoke up.

Athos remained quiet and it was at him that Treville looked, eyebrows raised. Athos took a deep breath and closed his eyes for an instance before looking at him. “You knew of this.”

Captain Treville nodded as Aramis and Porthos looked at first Athos and then at him, aghast. “What do you mean?” Aramis asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Gerard is perfectly within his rights to punish behavior such as d’Artagnan’s and he did formally complain to me first earlier today.” He looked at each of them before continuing. “There is nothing I can do about it, the matter is out of my hands.”

“But sire!” Aramis exclaimed. “D’Artagnan is not to blame for all that he has been accused of. He did spend the night in the tavern but that was because he was accompanying Athos. And he was late because he had gone to the apothecary to get the salve Porthos needed. And I don’t know why he didn’t deny it when Gerard accused him of being drunk, because I talked to him earlier and he was most certainly sober.”

“His injury.” Athos said quietly. Aramis turned towards him, confused. “He got injured in the leg remember? It must have been acting up and causing him to limp.”

Porthos grunted in disgust. “Gerard is twisting the facts and presenting him so that d’Artagnan looks like a drunken fool. He did not even give the lad a chance to explain.”

“Enough!” The sharply spoken word was enough to silence all three men, and Treville glared at each of them in turn. “Tell me if he not to blame for his actions, then who is?”

The three musketeers looked at the ground, shamefaced. “We are.” Athos admitted quietly.

“Precisely.” Captain Treville said. “Do you realize the error of your ways? You have been using d’Artagnan with no thought of his other duties. Athos, do you remember how many nights you spent drinking at the tavern when you were only a guard?”

“None.”

“And yet is falls up to young d’Artagnan to pull you out of the pub every night.” He turned to Aramis. “And I can only imagine why you didn’t have enough time to go to the apothecary yourself, and got the lad to go in your stead.”

Aramis blushed and did not meet his eyes. “You gentlemen forget that he does not have a noble house backing him up, nor is he responsible for any of you. His loyalty to his friends stop him from denying you anything but you do not think before exploiting your friendship with him.”

There was complete silence in the office following the captain’s admonishments. Finally, after a long time Athos and Aramis shared a look and both of them nodded. It was Athos who spoke. “Sire, we accept that Aramis and I are to blame for d’Artagnan’s actions. Please order us be punished instead of him.”

Treville had expected swearing and angry threats and harsh words. He had even prepared himself for things to be thrown around. But the look of utter remorse on Athos’s and Aramis’s faces shocked him into silence. He considered their request, but then shook his head. “I am afraid I cannot allow that.”

He raised up a hand to silence the protest that was sure to follow. “I am glad that you understand the consequences of your behavior towards d’Artagnan but I cannot overrule Gerard’s judgment. It would undermine his position and make him appear weak in the eyes of his men. Furthermore it would give the other soldiers the idea that d’Artagnan is shown preference over them and that would not be fair for the young man in question.”

“Yes but so what?” Porthos came forward. “If he is shown preference it is because he is twice the man any of those noble twits are!”

“There is nothing you can do?” Aramis was almost begging now, and Treville looked away. He did not like this any more than the three men standing in front of him. D’Artagnan was a fine man who did not deserve this at all.

“No, I am sorry but your only hope is that d’Artagnan has it in his heart to forgive you three.”

“How many lashes?” Athos asked quietly.

“Thirty.” There was a collective intake of breathe at the answer before Athos nodded and gestured to the other two.

“Come on, we have to go talk to him,” he said and nodding at the captain turned and walked out of the office followed by the other two.

One look at their faces had been enough to tell d’Artagnan that they had failed in their talk with the captain. His shoulders sagged and he leaned against the wall in the armory, the reality of his situation hitting him with full force.

“We are very _very_ sorry.” Athos said quietly, not meeting his eyes.

The anguish and regret in his voice told d’Artagnan everything he needed to know about what had transpired in the captain’s office. He swallowed once, twice and took a deep breathe. His friends were not at fault. He would bear his punishment with whatever remaining dignity it afforded him.

“You are not to blame. It’s okay,” he said, thanking the heavens that he sounded braver than he felt.

Aramis looked at him startled. “But we are! If not for us you wouldn’t be in this predicament right now.”

“We tried to get the captain to punish us instead of you, but he said that that would undermine Gerard’s position and make it look like he was favoring you.” Athos told him.

D’Artagnan nodded, touched that Athos would consider that, though he himself would never have allowed his friends to get punished in his stead. They had far more to lose than him.

He had also expected that there would be a political aspect to the whole thing. He placed a hand on Athos’s shoulder and squeezed. “Hey, it’s alright. I understand. You did all you could.” He managed a small smile. “I’ll just look at it as a new experience. What do you keep saying about character building, Aramis?”

Aramis chuckled ruefully and shook his head. “You might not feel so charitable towards us after…” he trailed off.

“Nonsense.” D’Artagnan proclaimed. “Now tell me you have some mission to take care of until noon. I don’t want to sit around and play at swords with _that_ to look forward to.” He shuddered, only half in exaggeration.  “And for god’s sake stop looking so mournful all of you. I’m going to be whipped, not shot!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers look after d'Artagnan after his punishment is over

D’Artagnan had managed to put up a brave face in front of his friends. They were feeling terrible and he did not need to add to their guilt, however misplaced it was.

But he was far from okay. His stomach was churning at the thought of the rapidly approaching noon and his inevitable punishment. He was to be dealt thirty lashes.

_Thirty lashes!_

He stood facing the door, his shirt off at Gerard’s order, his hands clenched into tight fists. He could hear the murmuring crowd outside, and he held his head high. No matter how bad it was, he would go through with as much grace as he could. He had never been a particularly religious man, but right now he prayed fervently that the ordeal not strip him of his dignity as brutally as it had stripped him of his clothes.

The door opened at the stroke of noon and the executioner who had specially been called to handle the punishment beckoned him forward. D’Artagnan took one last long breathe before steeling himself. He walked out with his head held high.

The bright sunlight after the dark room blinded him for a moment and it took several seconds for his eyes to adjust. He looked at the number of people gathered, shocked. There were several musketeers present along with a full assembly of the guards. It looked like anyone who wasn’t on a mission had made their way to the ground. His eyes sought out the familiar faces of his friends, half hoping that they hadn’t come: he didn’t want them to see him disgraced in such a way, but he didn’t want to be alone in a sea of strangers either; he did not see them until he was standing on the small platform which had been put up in the middle.

They were standing right in the front, and d’Artagnan met their eyes as his hands were lifted and tied to the two poles. Aramis and Porthos looked away, but Athos held his gaze, as if not affording himself the luxury of turning away from a friend’s pain.

D’Artagnan took solace from the surety that Athos’s eyes on him provided.

“Begin!”

The loud order was preceded swiftly by the first lash. For a blessed moment, d’Artagnan did not feel anything.

And then there was _pain_.

A hot sizzling wave of pain which left him gasping and brought tears to his eyes.

“One,” the executioner called out.

D’Artagnan steeled himself, remembering his promise. He grit his teeth and blinked away the tears, raising his head. However, he couldn’t stop his back muscles from tensing as the whip came down a second time with a terrible _crack_.

He kept himself focused on Athos’s face, and when after the next few lashes the pain became too much and he had to close his eyes, he pictured him in his mind’s eye. He wanted to scream, to curse, to weep and beg for the pain to _stop_.

But he didn’t do all that. Not as long as Athos was watching.

He wrapped the rope tying his hands to the poles a few times around his arm so that all his weight wouldn’t fall on his wrists if his legs gave out and he counted.

There were murmurs first, which turned into whispers which turned into voices. Voices full of scorn, disgust and in some cases amazement. D’Artagnan tuned it all out as he focused on breathing. The whip came down a few more times and his legs gave out.

His back was on fire, his head bowed, his feet refused to remain upright, his arms were burning from the strain and tears were flowing freely from his eyes; but he did not scream. Not a single sound passed his lips.

He did not know how long it was before the last lash fell on his back. Time had slowed down until all he was aware of was pain and more _pain_.

Gerard was talking and he could make out some words about this being a warning, about proper behavior and the fate of those who neglected their duties. He was aware that it was over and suddenly the ropes tying his arms and holding him up were cut off.

He would have slumped like a puppet without strings had two strong arms not caught him. He tried to fight them off, remembering his resolution to not show weakness.

“Hush hush son, it’s me. It’s okay. We’ve got you.” Athos’s soothing voice stilled his protests and he tilted his head towards it.

“Thos?” he mumbled, the name a request for help and a longing for warmth and safety all at once.

Athos must have understood for there was a cloak being draped over his shoulders and strong arms around his waist carrying his weight.

“Where are you taking him?” a harsh voice filtered through d’Artagnan’s clouded senses and he subconsciously turned away seeking the comfort of a warm shoulder instead.

“Step away Gerard.” Porthos’s quite growl must have held enough promise of violence that Gerard moved away without any further protest. Porthos remained in the lead, parting the crowd and keeping the spectators at an arm’s length while Athos and Aramis followed in his wake, carrying d’Artagnan between them.

It was by unspoken agreement that the four of them made their way to Aramis’s quarters at the barracks where they gently lay d’Artagnan face down on the bed.

Aramis started collecting the supplies required to clean and dress his wounds. He looked at the other two who seemed at a complete loss, standing and staring at the young man on the bed. “Athos, get me a pail of clean water from the well downstairs. Porthos, open that cupboard and find me some bandages.”

His brusque commands had the two men springing into action, while d’Artagnan mumbled incoherently. Aramis set about grinding a few herbs into a paste that would help the cuts to heal. He focused on the task at hand, not thinking about how he would give anything to not be patching up the young Gascon right now. Athos, Porthos and himself sustaining injuries in battle, he could handle. But when d’Artagnan was dealt his share of wounds and pain and Aramis had to take care of him, he found his hands shaking. There was something so incredibly innocent and _pure_ about the young man that he couldn’t help the overwhelming urge to protect him from the cruelties of the world. And yet he himself had caused him to come to harm.

Aramis closed his eyes, blinking away the tears. He knew that d’Artagnan would forgive them, he probably already had. But he wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to forgive himself. Causing the young man so much undeserved pain and disgrace was a sin he was going to do penance for for a long time to come.

“Here, where do you need the water?” Athos asked, having arrived with a bucket almost full to the brink. Aramis gestured for him to put it down near the bed and took the rolls of bandage Porthos offered. He got the bowl he had been mixing the salve in too and set both things down on the small table beside the bed.

Aramis lifted the cloak that Athos had draped over d’Artagnan’s shoulders to preserve some of his dignity and all three of them gasped at the sight of his back. It was bloody with angry red cuts and welts. There were several deep gashes which were bleeding freely where the whip must have landed more than once on the same spot, completely tearing away the skin. Aramis couldn’t stop the tears from streaking down his face or the choked sob which escaped.

He looked up when Porthos grasped his shoulder. “Pull yourself together, friend,” he said, roughly. “He needs our help right now, not our tears.”

Aramis nodded. “Athos, I am going to wash these cuts with some saline water. It will sting and he will try to move so I need you to hold him still.”

Athos looked stricken at causing the injured man even more pain, but nodded resolutely. Aramis took a cloth and dipped it in the bucket he had added salt to before rubbing it over the shallower cuts. D’Artagnan gasped and his back would have arched but Athos held him down with a firm hand.

“I’m sorry lad, I’m sorry,” he whispered softly, combing a hand through the younger man’s hair who completely relaxed into his touch. “It’s going to be okay, I’ve got you.”

Aramis continued to wash his back but apart from a few gasps when the wet cloth hit the deeper cuts, d’Artagnan did not protest again. The Gascon’s trust in him brought Athos to his knees. He had done nothing but put d’Artagnan’s life in danger from the first moment he had dueled with him in the courtyard to getting him whipped mercilessly for no fault of his own. And yet one word from him and the boy gave up any struggle completely.

“Never met anyone like him.” Porthos said, quietly. “I don’t think I could have gone through _that_ like he did.”

Aramis nodded in agreement. “I would have been a weeping wreck halfway through. Anyone would have at least let out a scream, but him…” he trailed off, opting to concentrate on putting thread into needle to sew some of the deeper gashes shut.

Athos sighed. “He is indeed one of a kind,” he said, brushing away a few strands of stray hair that had fallen over the young man’s closed eyes. He paused when he noticed a small smile on the young man’s face, and he shook his head in fond amusement. “Stubborn as a mule, he probably thought he looked really tough.”

He was rewarded by a petulant pout and a barely audible, “I’m not a mule, you’re a mule.” Athos continued combing through his hair, smiling affectionately.

“He’s conscious?” Aramis asked, surprised. He looked at where the needle was piercing the skin every time he put in another stich and shuddered. The Gascon apparently had a _very_ high pain threshold, or he was too far gone to care.

“Barely,” Athos replied, “Like I said, stubborn as a mule.” 

Aramis smiled softly, though the haunted look did not completely disappear from his eyes and Porthos chuckled.

They worked in silence after that, the only sound in the room being Athos’s soothing humming and the occasional sharp intake of air from d’Artagnan. It wasn’t until the last cut was bandaged that Aramis helped the young man sit up and fed him some water. D’Artagnan blanched at the thought of eating something, but took the sleeping draught Aramis offered without complaint.

It was a very careful Athos who lowered him back on the bed facedown again, shifting the pillows so that he did not pull the stiches by turning over in his sleep. He remained seated on the floor beside the bed having discovered that his moving away caused d’Artagnan to start mumbling in his sleep and drifted off to sleep himself.

XXX

“The next person who says ‘I’m sorry’ or any variation of the aforementioned statement henceforth would be buying the next round of beer.” 

“That was awfully formal of you.” Athos said, grinning.

“I’ve been taught that it pays to be polite.” D’Artagnan replied cheekily, glancing at Aramis who raised his glass to him.

All four of them were at the tavern, drinking to d’Artagnan’s recovery. There had been a short ceremony before they had set out when Athos had presented a written permission to ‘go out with his most esteemed friends and get completely and utterly wasted.’ It was signed by Captain Treville. D’Artagnan still hadn’t managed to find out what the three of them had done to get him to sign that very useful piece of paper which had a lot of future potential. But he had had enough of the apologetic faces and the heartfelt speeches. He had written off the whole ordeal as a thing of the past which he would rather not linger on but every contrite look was reminding him of it.

“Well in that case,” Porthos said, holding out a hand to signal the barkeeper for more drinks, “have I told you how completely and utterly sorry I am for what happened?”

D’Artagnan groaned and let his head hit the table while all three of them chuckled.


End file.
